


all quiet on the watchpoint front

by tanyart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Past Drug Use, Shotgunning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick smoke break on a payload mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all quiet on the watchpoint front

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the fall of Overwatch, but before Recall.

Gibraltar was warmer than what McCree thought it would be, and just about ten times quieter than what his newest employer had thought it _wouldn’t_ be. The poor man probably had wasted his money for a whole lot of nothing, but McCree was in no position to mind, a paycheck was a paycheck by the end of the day. If he was going to earn it by sitting around with only a little sweat under his collar then that was quite fine by him.

He eased back on the massive tanker, glad that the engines were finally cooled and silent. Pretty soon the sun would set, and it was in no one’s interest to be ambushed at night. Not that McCree thought there would be an ambush so late into the route at a relatively safe checkpoint. Either the payload was not worth very much, or his employer had the right mind to divert his enemies’ attention elsewhere.

“New weapon of mass destruction, cryo-frozen prisoner, or someone’s very valuable baseball card collection?” a voice asked from above him.

McCree crained his head upwards to look into a green-lit visor and an impassive mask. He tipped his hat. Sounded like his most recent colleague’s paygrade hadn’t been worth the detail either.

“Well, if we’re lucky, none of those things. We’re just taking this lovely _empty_ tanker out on a nice walk,” he said, giving the mobile payload a fond pat on one of its large wheels.

Genji’s laugh was good-humored, if a little generous. It was at odds with his faceless armor, but McCree supposed that he ought to be used to people without faces by now. It was a nice laugh though, cybernetic rasp and all.

“The way appears clear,” Genji continued, shifting from his crouched position on top of the tank. He let his legs dangle over the edge, armored boot almost close enough to nudge McCree’s hat off, though McCree took significant note that Genji did no such thing. Genji only patted the spot next to him, mirroring the same gesture McCree had given the wheel. “The view is better up here, if you would like to make sure.”

McCree’s gaze slid back down to Genji’s boot, the bottom covered with dust that faded badly with the gray armor. Fascinating little mark. Not much to note, only McCree’s left arm itching more than usual, his face feeling prickly and warm under his unshaven beard.

He glanced back up, and Genji held out his hand. McCree didn’t need much convincing thereafter. “Well, if you insist.”

“I do.”

Genji pulled him up with relative ease, grip unwavering as their mechanical hands clashed together, metal on metal. McCree took his seat, the heels of his boots drumming against the payload with all the leftover energy from a relatively uneventful day. Beside him Genji remained silent and still, something McCree would have thought unusual back when Overwatch had been running. A lot had changed since then, but now that Genji was fond of meditation, he learned not to take his silences for aloofness. In any case, McCree was used to working with very quiet and solemn people. Or maybe he was just too chatty by sheer comparison.

He patted his pockets. While Genji was probably capable of sitting still for hours upon hours, McCree sure as hell could not. His fingers found a fresh cigar and drew it halfway out. “Mind if I smoke?”

Genji’s head turned. He sounded amused; “Not at all. I am able to filter it.”

McCree paused, cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and lighter in one hand. With a short laugh, he took the cigar out to speak, catching the way the soft green glow from Genji’s armor dimmed by a fraction. “Well, it’s not so much that but—just wondering if you’d miss it.”

He bent his head once more and lit the cigar between his lips. If Genji had a visible reaction, he didn’t see it, and he likely wasn’t privileged to it either. The old Shimada Empire had been well known for its drug trafficking so McCree assumed even a disowned family member like Genji would’ve sampled their own exports at some point. A cigar was probably nothing in comparison to whatever the Shimada household doled out, but it seemed like Genji hadn’t had the luxury or anatomy for the past few years.

“I have not thought of smoking again until you brought it up,” Genji replied, a shade wryly.

McCree snorted, tucking his lighter back into his pocket. He sucked a quick breath, held, and let out a puff away from Genji. Filtering mask or not, it wasn’t very polite to be blowing smoke in anyone’s direction. The end of the cigar turned to ash and that too he flicked away in absent habit.

“So,” he began, glancing up. He inhaled from his cigar again and let the smoke seep out slow as he spoke. Genji had no eyes—no visible eyes, as far as McCree knew—but he had the distinct feeling Genji was looking at his mouth. The tilt of his head, perhaps, or the way his body had a slight lean towards McCree. “ _Do_  you miss it?”

Genji spoke without hesitation. “Yes, a little.”

McCree was surprised he didn’t sound the least bit envious, only contemplative. Then again, Genji seemed more at peace now, and much less angry at the world in general. Something about a trip to Nepal, from what the grapevine told.

He leaned back with a crooked smile, strangely confident Genji would not take offense. “Don’t rightly know if I can offer you one. I would if I could.”

“You should,” Genji replied. At McCree’s raised brow, he added, “I am able to smoke, if you would help.”

“Now what do you mean by that,” McCree began, but he had dug into his pocket for a fresh cigar. He had no idea how Genji would manage it, but he was more than willing to find out. The thought of Genji taking off his mask entered his mind, made him pause for only a moment, but he brushed it aside. “You need a light, or-”

Genji touched his arm, interrupting, and plucked the second cigar from McCree’s fingers. He slipped it back into his pocket with all the deftness of a man who knew a thing or two about throwing shuriken. McCree couldn’t even feel it, not even the brush of fabric, though a part of him wished he could have felt the light pressure from Genji’s fingers against him.

“The one you already have lit will do,” Genji said, the green curve of his visor glowing brighter.

McCree had no doubts Genji was looking at his mouth now. The cigar was still red-lit between them, flakes of ash drifting down over Genji’s white armor, wasting tobacco as McCree momentarily forgot to inhale.

Genji leaned in, and McCree became acutely aware of the quiet humming of Genji’s mechanical ventilation, the soft click of metal joints as he shifted his weight on his arms—and the ash from his cigar was the exact same shade of Genji’s armor.

“Draw breath for me.”

He was so close McCree could feel the vibration of Genji’s voice in the air between them, or maybe he was just imagining things.

“Alright,” McCree said, suddenly understanding. He remembered to breathe again and filled his lungs, holding, and took the cigar from his mouth.

He tilted his head, waited just a beat for Genji’s fingers at his jaw to guide him lower, past the spot where his mouth would have been. McCree had his lips just slightly under the neck, over the soft flexible material of Genji’s throat where it connected to metal. He couldn’t see any movement from Genji, no rise and fall of his chest, and he doubted for a moment if it could really work.

All of Gibraltar seemed silent and waiting, and Genji’s free hand had turned into a nervous, clenched fist at his side. For the first time, McCree thought that maybe Genji was as tense as he was, but Genji’s fingers brushed at his cheek, signaling wordlessly, and McCree finally exhaled.

He watched as the smoke collected around Genji’s face, his own breath turned to curling tendrils seeping inside the slits of Genji’s armor. The old, ruthless Blackwatch agent in McCree found it astonishing, how willing Genji was to show those small gaps of weaknesses. Half a dozen ways to kill, to immobilize, flitting through his mind like a nasty bad habit, but the other part of McCree—whichever part that was—only moved closer when Genji’s hand slid down to his neck, chrome fingers warming against his skin. He saw how Genji’s chest moved, smoke filling him through artificial vents that passed for lungs, and that was another kind of dangerous thrill as well.

The smoke was long gone from his body. McCree was at the end of his breath—he swears it may have been too short, more sigh than exhale—but Genji must have been watching him as closely as he had been watching Genji. There was another touch at his cheek, and McCree was able to breathe again.

The ports over Genji’s shoulders clicked opened, hissing steam from their vents. McCree almost moved away, but the steam was shockingly cool, different from the hot pressurized air caused by overexertion. It smelled distinctly inorganic but not unpleasant, faintly of tobacco and burnt wood, as if Genji wasn’t quite able to completely filter it all out, or perhaps didn’t want to. It was the kind of scent McCree would turn his head to if he caught a whiff of it in the air, like catching a hint of smoky cologne on a crowded street.

The ports clicked shut, and Genji made made a small noise of satisfaction. His hand was still at McCree’s neck, and McCree’s breathing was coming out quicker than he would have liked after a long drag. His hat had fallen off somewhere behind him, completely forgotten.

“Y’know,” McCree said, a tad reproachfully, “Never figured you for a dangerous flirt.”

They had unconsciously shifted in their seats. McCree was bent low, his body curved over Genji while Genji had stretched up to meet him. Neither of them moved for the longest time.

“You are familiar with my past,” Genji said, matching his tone. He peered behind McCree, hand leaving his neck. He reached around to retrieve the missing hat, shoulder pressing against McCree’s chest with deliberate movement. “I have not forgotten how to.”

McCree couldn’t help it. He laughed, quiet, and took a drag from the cigar. God knew he was going to need it now. “Do you miss it?”

Genji held out his hat, and McCree obligingly lowered his head as Genji placed it back on, giving it a more rakish tilt that what was necessary.

“I have not thought of it until you brought it up,” Genji replied, with almost same amount of wryness as before.

That must have been a bald-faced lie. McCree laughed again, watching as Genji’s green lights glowed brighter.

“So, _do_ you miss it?” McCree asked, though he could guess the answer by now. He took another drag from his cigar, holding it.

“Yes,” Genji said, laughing, and leaned forward again for another breath.


End file.
